I Don't Need Everything, Just Your Heart Will Do
by The Flame and Hawk's Eye
Summary: The last time he whispered her name, it left his lips like a prayer – honest, sincere, and full of love. Because if there was an iota of her somewhere in there, he wanted her to know that it wasn't her fault. That he still loved her. (A Post-Promised Day AU where the gold-toothed doctor has colleagues at large who seek revenge against Roy... by taking the one thing he holds dear).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This was a request I got on Tumblr the other day that I decided to fill because the prompt was interesting, and also because I used it as a little writing exercise! The prompt was:_

 _Muse A is kidnapped by scientists to be experimented on. Turns out these scientists were people Muse B used to work for and are trying to get back at Muse B for leaving. Now, Muse B knows what is going to happen and they muse race against time in order to save Muse A before it's too late._

 _Twist #1: Muse B is too late and has to watch as Muse A dies._

 _ **Twist #2: Muse B gets there just in time to watch Muse A turn into an emotionless killer like the scientists wanted.**_

 _I have a few chapters planned out for the future, but am currently focusing on updating 'Engraved' (which is coming soon) and 'Hellbound' (because its anniversary is coming up and I want to get a chapter out!). Thank you for your patience with those and my other fics if you are reading them. All of them are drafted and being written. It's been busy, but I appreciate it! So without further ado, please enjoy!_

* * *

How, he wondered idly as the blood from his slashed throat continued to spill onto the ground, had he been so blind…?

The signs had all been there. Spelled out for him in the weeks before they had taken her. A break-in here or there, always a different combination of chemicals and drugs taken. But amongst them all, he realized after it had been too late, were a particular set that he only recognized after he had found her apartment ransacked. Signs of a struggle. Blood on the walls.

They had been violent. They had been needing. And combined with the string of laboratory robberies and the chemicals taken, their motives had become clear.

After the Promised Day, when she had nearly been taken from him, he grew voracious for knowledge on the doctor who had nearly succeeded. Richard Valkin, he learned through his research, had been the alias of the doctor he had first known as the one with the golden tooth. And with him as a starting point, he was able to trace back to the time when Fuhrer King Bradley had been born. And, more importantly, he was able to learn about the fates of those who had been less fortunate when it came down to it. Bradley had succeeded where they might have otherwise failed. But rather than 'waste' them, the gold-toothed man had successfully devised a way to still keep them within his grasp.

Numbers instead of names. Orders instead of requests.

Hours upon hours upon hours of 'treatments' and chemicals and mind-warping drugs that took every last ounce of their free will and chained it down. Took every emotion – happiness, fear, grief, love – and tore them to shreds. Emotions were something the doctor did not desire.

Because if a bond were to be formed with their victim, even momentarily, their resolve would falter and weaken.

And they couldn't have that.

How far their will ran, the corrupt doctor never knew. He didn't care. Because who would _want_ to challenge their complacency? As long as they obeyed, he would not question it.

How deep their memories and emotions ran, he never cared. It seemed unlikely they remained intact, Roy had previously determined from reading the reports. And now, with the position he had found himself in, he knew that his prior thought had been correct.

Roy pressed his fingers harder against the torn remains of his jugular, feeling the warm, dark blood as it continued to trickle out and around his fingers and onto the ground to be soaked up. He momentarily wondered if it had been done strictly for the irony, or if it had been instructed.

Trained.

Implanted.

His eyes wandered up to his adversary–

Subordinate.

Murderer.

Lover—

To find her standing in the same position. Clouded eyes focused intently on him.

No signs of light.

None of recognition.

No movement whatsoever, save for her grip tightening on the cold, blood-covered steel blade they had equipped her with. The best way he could describe it in his incoherent, disheveled thoughts was eerie. Unsettling. Because even though she made it look so natural, her former words still rang out loud in his head:

 _"I like guns. Because unlike swords and knives, you don't have to feel your victim die."_

He wondered if she could feel him dying at that moment. Or maybe that too had been stripped from her after she had been taken.

Roy briefly tore his eyes away from the blade to look up at her eyes. How impassive they were. How cold and lightless and dull. It was incredible how a month's time could completely drain the light and love from a person's eyes.

His vision blurred momentarily, and to prevent himself from taking the path he knew would leave one way the moment his sight vanished he squeezed his fingers down hard on the ruptured vessel, staunching its flow just a little more.

He licked his parched lips, and silently, finally, damned her creators… And his foolishness. Their names were still a mystery to him – and now he would never know what they were. But he should have known. Should have searched harder to trace the gold-toothed doctor's web of corruption to them to have prevented this entirely - or to discover that their resentment toward him had stemmed from his actions on the Promised Day. They had not been brought to justice then, and now he feared they never would.

He had gone to find her on a hunch alone, failing to disclose his whereabouts to anyone for fear of losing her. It was a foolish mistake. A month without much sleep would do that to anyone, though – give them grandiose thoughts of a favorable outcome.

Roy refused to allow himself to regret his decision, however. He had begun to dig his own grave the moment he left his home to pursue it.

Now, it would seem, she would bury him in it.

The last time he whispered her name, it left his lips like a prayer – honest, sincere, and full of love. Because if there was an iota of her somewhere in there, he wanted her to know that it wasn't her fault. That he still loved her.

But even so, he hoped that nothing of her remained. That the Riza Hawkeye he had known and loved and cherished above himself was gone and dead. Because if there was even a fraction of her left, he feared she would mourn. And he wouldn't have that.

Her name meant nothing to her now, and he didn't expect it to. He just needed to say it… Just one last time…

In his fleeting moments before the darkness grasped him and took over, he had willed himself to look up and into her eyes one last time.

It would be his final regret in life – having to look up and search and find that eyes once clouded had changed. To see just in time a single tear escape the corner of her eye and roll down her cheek.


	2. No Eight-Eight Rho

**A/N:** _I have absolutely no reason why I finished this first. I'm not sure yet whether I'm happy with it or not. In reality this fic has maybe 2-3 chapters left, and I haven't decided if I want to go with the happier ending or the bittersweet one. Let me know your thoughts if you have any in regards to OOC, speed of scenes, or anything else because I'm a bit uncertain in some spots if a few scenes are too fast. The Roy one is purposefully done, though, because of the way things will play out next chapter. Thanks for the favorites, follows, and reviews! They mean the world!_

* * *

 _ **You are a weapon…**_

She watched him, her stomach twisting in knots the longer she stared. This… response was not anticipated. Was not warranted.

 _ **You do not think.**_

She traced along the edge of the bloodied steel blade, applying enough pressure to almost cut through the flesh of her thumb. Just enough to remind her of its capacity.

Of its purpose.

 _ **You do not feel.**_

His chest still rose and fell methodically. Breathing in and out.

In and out.

 _ **You have one purpose, and one purpose only.**_

She reached up. Wiped away the moisture that had settled itself on the edge of her jaw, and realized that more had begun to fall. Raising her other hand, she began to push the tears away as they continued to trickle down her cheeks.

He was a threat. She had served her purpose: To find and eliminate it.

Then why…? Why was this happening?

 _Recalibrate_ was the word that came to mind.

Reset.

Forget.

Stop the pain. _**Stop it all.**_

She turned the bloodied knife in her hand. Jabbed it into her palm, sending a shockwave of pain tearing first throughout her entire arm, and then her entire body.

 _Ineffective._

She pulled it out and repeated the motion, driving it deeper into the muscles and ligaments of her hand.

Nothing.

The tingling in her stomach fluctuated and rolled and grew.

She pulled it out, raised the hand wielding the blade to her eyes as the droplets of water continued to spill over from her eyes, using the back of her hand to push them off her face.

They stung. _They burned._

They wouldn't _stop_.

Recalibrate.

Reset.

Forget.

Forget it all.

 _ **She was a weapon.**_

 _ **She would not think.**_

She drove the knife deeper.

 _ **She would not feel.**_

She twisted it.

It was her _**purpose**_.

 _Because_ , she gasped as voices rang out and reverberated and pulled her attention from the man lying still in front of her.

She looked up. Weapons trained on her. Focused.

Aimed to kill.

 _Because_ … She gripped the blade handle tighter and blinked the water away.

She was a weapon.

And weapons… do not cry.

* * *

Jean Havoc's stomach rolled and he looked down at the document in his hand again, no longer able to watch the interrogation that was unfolding in front of him.

For two hours he stood behind one-way glass, barely breathing. Watching his teammate, one of his closest friends, sit rigidly as countless questions barraged her.

In those two hours she did not bat an eye. Did not show a single sign of remorse.

As though she were disconnected from her actions.

Jean swallowed, rereading what was written in large, sloppy bold letters at the top of the document:

 _ **No. 88-P.**_

He whispered the annotation under his breath, hoping that in turn something would spring into his mind as to what they had meant. But instead he only found himself grow sicker over the thought that this document was, in some essence, her.

He had allowed himself to read it over thoroughly only once, then vowed to never do so again.

The things they had done. The things they had planned to do… were sickening.

"A call name."

Startled, his head shot up and he turned his focus to Edward, who had not spoken since they had returned.

"A 'call name,'" he echoed back in a daze.

"Yeah," Edward muttered, his eyes never leaving the two behind the one-way glass. "Eight-eight, or eighty-eight: the year she was born. And 'rho,' that symbol that looks like a 'p,' is the ancient Xerxian letter that best corresponds to the Amestrian 'R.' They probably added it because they likely had a number eighty-eight before…" He stopped, the frown on his face deepening.

Though he hadn't known at the time, Jean realized now it was likely the marking he had seen when they had pushed her to the ground and restrained her.

Her hair had fallen down over her shoulders, bearing the back of her neck to them. There, just below her hairline had been what he first thought were two infinity signs and what appeared to be a 'P' tattooed in calligraphic text. Now, however, he knew it to be the supposed call number she had been assigned. Eight-eight Rho…

88-Rho.

Or however the hell it was supposed to be.

If he felt it critical enough, he supposed he could ask one of the 'doctors' they had found minutes later. Though as he rolled the idea around in his mind, he decidedly doubted the investigations committee would let him or anyone else from his team near them again, especially considering one of the four was already dead.

No, one of their team members hadn't the pleasure of dispatching him themselves, as much as they had wanted to when they came across the grisly scene. Instead, it appeared that his death had occurred before they arrived, his body gathered into a corner and nearly overlooked. Though they were told to wait for the autopsy report, Jean knew they had postulated at least what had killed him.

A single knife wound to the chest was difficult to miss, after all.

He hated thinking about it again. Hated having to revisit the question that hung in the back of his mind again: Whether or not Riza Hawkeye still lived?

Because once that question entered his mind, a flood of other questions would soon follow. Like whether or not she was still in there, a prisoner in her own mind. Or if she had been dismantled and haphazardly put back together again in such a way that she would never be whole again. Whether she even had an ounce of remorse or thought about what she had done…

He tore his eyes away from the report he hadn't bothered to read again to look through the one-way glass to see that her expression remained as impassive as it had been before. No sign whatsoever that she was even considering the interrogator's words.

"I don't understand."

Edward's eyes narrowed toward the pair on the other side of the glass. "What do you mean exactly?"

Turning his eyes away from the glass, Havoc reached up and dragged his fingers through his hair. What _did_ he not understand exactly? He had read the report. He knew what they had done. He understood the consequences of their actions because he had seen firsthand what they resulted in.

"I just can't wrap my head around it," he admitted. "How a month's time could have done this to her… And how she could have possibly done what she did to the General."

Edward's brows wrinkled, his eyes still firmly planted on Riza. After a few moments of considering Jean's concerns, he slowly shook his head. "You have to remember that this is as form of psychological warfare. You weren't there beneath Central Command when we fought against the rejected Fuhrer candidates. They," he continued softly, "They just didn't seem to think or feel anything. Doing what it took, no matter what to make sure they got did the gold-toothed doctor wanted them to."

Jean glanced toward Riza again to see that her eyes had shifted down to glare at the desktop as the interrogator continued to question her, rubbing her hands together in an almost anxious manner beneath the table. He swallowed hard, almost wanting to believe that it really _was_ a nervous tick she was displaying, because maybe then it would prove that she was still capable of showing emotion. That she was still in there.

That she could be saved.

Turning back to Edward, he saw that he too was watching her hands. He saw it too. "What do you think," he asked quietly. "Do you think that she might now? That somewhere inside her head she realizes what she's doing?"

"'What do I think,'" Edward echoed as his eyes widened. "I think she realizes _exactly_ what she's doing."

Before Havoc could respond, Edward pushed past him and flung the door to the small room they were positioned in open, stomping out into the hallway that connected the reverse mirror and interrogation rooms.

"Chief!" Stumbling out after him, Havoc only managed to brush his fingers over Edward's arm before the younger man opened the door to the interrogation room and stepped inside, drawing the attention of the interrogator and the interrogated to him.

Despite the interrogating soldier's cry of alarm, Edward ignored him and calmly stepped over to the edge of the table, his golden eyes never wavering from her.

"Give it to me," he muttered evenly, holding his hand out and his palm facing up.

Her eyes slowly crept up over him, sizing him up, until they at last felt on the bandage that covered his left cheek. The corners of her lips twitched upward ever so slightly.

A chill crept up Jean's spine. They had known somewhat what they were to expect when they had tailed Roy to the seemingly abandoned warehouse just hours before, but they didn't _know_ what they would see. The thought had never crossed their mind that she could ever do something of that caliber to him. Ever. And yet there they found themselves, standing frozen and watching in horror as she stepped over his body, _the pool of blood_ , and raised the knife to eye level, silently challenging them to advance.

As the memories of those moments flooded his mind, Jean took a step back, prompting her to shoot a glance toward him. But after looking him up and down she turned away and focused her attention on Edward once more.

Each of them had called to her, but it was clear she was either not hearing their words or was choosing to not heed them.

Or, they even postulated, had even begun to stall for time.

Because they didn't know how long the General had been in that state, lying motionlessly on the cold cement floor with his fingers jammed in his bleeding neck, but they knew from previous experience that every second after that counted.

Without wasting another moment, Edward had darted forward and called for Alphonse to follow after him, raising his open hands to his face as he sprinted toward her. She did not hold back when she swung. Using the palm of one of his opened hands, he knocked the arm that was wielding the knife away from him when she lashed out at him a second time. He took advantage of her wide swing and caught her when she left herself open.

Though she was able to deliver a deep gash to his cheek, the struggle ended quickly with Edward as the victor.

Barely.

In the present, she returned his 'greeting' with a venomous glare, staring at him the way an agitated snake would when confronted on even ground. It was unnerving how uncharacteristic it was. How devoid of any remorse or sorrow it was. Then, to further attempt to unsettle him, the corners of her lips curled back into a sinister smile.

Edward did not flinch at her attempt to intimidate him and instead held his hand closer to her; his gesture silently demanding she turn over whatever was in her hand.

Finally, the smile on her face forming into a scowl, her hands – one bandaged, one clean - slowly reappeared from beneath the table, producing a pen in the one that was wrapped. Riza dropped it on the table and quickly withdrew them, turning her eyes away from him toward the wall.

Edward took a step forward and snatched the pen off of the table. Keeping his body angled toward her, he turned his eyes toward the interrogator and waved it in his face. "Next time check her person before you let her stick her hands beneath the table. Otherwise something like this will happen." Tossing it onto the man's lap, he added, "She was picking at the lock with it. Probably got it from a desk you had walked by."

The investigator opened his mouth to respond, but then promptly shut it when Edward followed up with a cold glare that could rival Riza's.

Havoc turned his eyes away from them to focus on her, seeing now that her eyes had slid away from the wall and were now on Edward. Though, instead of the emptiness she had displayed in them before, he could practically see them dripping with resent.

Edward did not appear to dwell on the look long, however, because within moments of receiving her glare he turned his back to her and began to make his way toward the door. But before he stepped out, he placed a hand on the door jamb and angled his head enough to peer toward him out of the corner of his eye.

Jean quickly turned his head to look at her and found that she had chosen to give her attention to the wall once again. He swallowed and turned back to Edward to see his reaction, and his heart sank.

For so long he had tried to remain the voice of reason, the one who would use logic to combat the emotions they all felt, even when he was feeling them himself. But at long last the steel armor he had so carefully constructed around his emotions fractured and fell away, leaving behind a distraught expression.

Forming the hand that rested on the doorframe into a fist, he turned his head away and muttered, "We should let him finish up here. We can get caught up once he's done."

Surprised by Edward's turn around, Jean opened his mouth to respond but closed it when the younger stepped out of the room. Tossing one last glance toward Riza, he saw that she had turned her scrutinizing glare toward them once again. The corners of her lips twitched triumphantly, as though she had won whatever argument she and Edward had silently had. He shook his head and tore his eyes away from her, turning on his heels to follow Edward out of the room. After closing the door behind him, he found that Edward had not gone far.

He took a slow step toward the younger man as he rested his forehead against the fist he had pressed against the wall. Before he could say anything, Edward muttered, "It's fine," as he closed his eyes. "I just needed a break."

"Chief…"

Edward exhaled, the sound akin to a small laugh, and shook his head. Slowly opening his eyes as Jean continued to watch him, he muttered, "You know… After being in there, even I'm uncertain." Turning to face Havoc, he added, "I don't even know if there _is_ someone in there anymore to save..."

* * *

 _Roy tensed as arms snaked themselves around his waist, but instantly relaxed when he felt a chin rest on his shoulder. He leaned his head to the side and rested it atop hers, taking care to push the hot pan on the stove in front of him away from them._

" _Do my eyes and nose deceive me," Riza Hawkeye asked sleepily. "Or are you really up before me? Making breakfast nonetheless?"_

" _Hey now," Roy teased back as he pushed the eggs in the pan around with a spatula. "I get up before you every now and then."_

 _She hummed contently in reply, nestling her head into the hollow of his neck. "That's true," she agreed. "But," she continued, "I have to ask. What's the occasion?"_

 _Roy moved his opposite shoulder up and down. "Nothing special." A smile touching his lips, he added, "I just figured I'd be the one to make breakfast for a change. Maybe shake things up a little, you know?' She laughed quietly and she shook her head, and his heart swelled._

 _But then her arms loosened and fell away from his waist. Puzzled, he began to turn toward her and ask where she was headed when her one of her hands found his neck. And the other…_

" _Got you," she droned before she slid the blade in her hand clean across his neck._

* * *

With a panicked gasp, Roy shot up into a sitting position and clutched at his neck. But instead of the warm, sticky sensation of blood he had expected, he instead felt a scratchy, rough material lying over where the wound should have been. Panting, his heart thundering in his chest, he traced his fingers along it.

A bandage…

"General…"

Feeling a slight pressure on his shoulder, he jumped and whirled around to face his attacker and swung. His assailant reacted more quickly than he, grabbing his wrists before he could complete his swing and jerked them away from their face. The sight of golden hair and eyes immediately stopped Roy from pursuing his assault further. Recognizing him as the younger of the two Elric brothers, he rasped, "Alph… onse?" A pained look crossed the young man's face as Roy reached up to touch the bandages on his neck again. His throat felt raw and tender, the laborious effort he made to even utter Alphonse's voice evident by how weak it had been.

"Please try not to speak, General Mustang. Your throat is still healing," Alphonse quietly instructed.

Roy's brows wrinkled and he turned his eyes away from the boy, looking down at the mint green hospital gown that covered his body and crisp white sheets of the bed he had been lying in.

He was in a hospital bed…

 _Got you._

He gasped and jerked his head around, trying to locate the source of the voice. But a quick scan of the room yielded no one else. Only he and Alphonse were there. Lifting a hand to tug at his shirt – it was so constricting – he tried to make sense of the reason it had sped up. Why he had suddenly broken into a cold sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut as his heart continued to pound in his ears—

… Riza.

Suddenly he remembered. That nightmare had not just simply been a nightmare at all – at least, not in its entirety. He had gone looking for her, desperate to find her before time ran out. But, he realized as his fingers wound around his neck again, it had been. She had snuck up behind him during his panicked search—

 _General…_

-Had raised a knife to his neck without hesitation—

 _General!_

-And had slit his throat the moment he realized who was behind him.

"General!"

Roy blinked, bringing Alphonse's face back into focus once more. The younger Elric had placed both hands on Roy's shoulders and was leaning over him, his face hovering near Roy's. Seeing that he had his attention Alphonse leaned back, though the fear that had shone so brightly in his eyes remained.

Alphonse opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a small popping noise. He gasped, turning around in time for both of them to hear a few concerned cries as a few hospital staff members ran past the room.

His attention immediately slid back to the young man, his eyes still lingering at the door. But then, after a few moments listening to the chaos that slowly began to unfold, he leapt up from his chair and headed toward the door, and announced, "I'll be right back, General."

Roy watched after him for a few moments until he was certain that he had gone, and then he threw off the blankets that had covered him and planted his feet on the cold linoleum floor. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he slowly began to make his way toward the source of the noise, he too realizing like Alphonse that it had was unmistakingly the sound of a gunshot.

* * *

She could only endure so much nonsensical drivel. After listening to it with no sense of how much time had passed, the senseless words that spilled from the interrogator's mouth finally stopped, and she was at last free to stand and move.

It seemed he had finally grown tired of spewing meaningless words to her.

Her eyes fell on the golden-haired man that was walking ahead of and to the right of her. After breaking up the mundane flurry of pointless droning she had to endure before, he had given her a much needed breath of fresh air. She had immediately recognized him as one of the men who had restrained her before. A challenge, she decided, seeing that he had been clever enough to see what she had in mind.

After all, he had successfully foiled her plan to escape and wring that droning wretch's neck.

Her eyes wandered down to his right arm. His hold had been weaker before. The muscling slightly less developed than on the left. He favored it. As he did his left leg.

They flickered up again to see that he was watching her, golden eyes focused intently on her.

When he briefly turned his attention away from her to address the man nearest him, her eyes slid down to his left leg, watching carefully each and every time he brought it down. By the fourth step she knew his condition.

Heavy footfall. A _ping_ sound accompanying every step.

A metal leg.

She'd have to watch for that.

They rounded the corner first. She followed after, one soldier at her flank.

She glared toward the other direction. A small recess. No doors. Just corners. A small storage area, she assumed it had once been.

How… Perfect.

When the golden-haired man slowed to peer over his shoulder to verify her proximity to him, she bolted forward, reaching up and over his head with both of her hands. Before he could completely turn around or react, she yanked back and backpedaled into the corner, crushing the cuff chains against his throat and cut off his supply of oxygen.

His hands instinctively went up to his throat, fingers feverishly trying to wrap beneath the chain as it completely cut off his airway, letting out a strangled gasp.

But she paid no heed to his attempt. It was pointless.

It took minimal effort to crush a windpipe.

His would be no exception.

She heard the two other guards yell for help, for her to stop, but the man was larger than her and it was effortless on her part to shield herself with them. To give herself additional anchorage, she slid her foot between his legs and hooked her ankle on his metal limb, in turn preventing him from winding up to kick back in retaliation.

A beat later there were hands on him, on her, trying to separate them as he continued to gasp and writhe. With his metal limb incapacitated, he had resorted to kicking back with his other leg, but even then his blows were ineffective. Especially when he couldn't get the leverage he needed.

She pressed herself more forcibly into the corner and pulled harder, at last feeling the satisfying _crunch_ of the cartilage in his neck as it gave into the pressure, and _fractured_.

Now he would not have the means to breathe unassisted.

He would not be able to—

* * *

-Breathe!

 _She leaned forward again, forcibly pushing air into his lungs once more._

 _Waited. Breath bated as his limp jaw hung open._

 _It had been so long. So long since he had been above the surface of water._

 _Three minutes he had been submerged beneath the lake's waves, his metal leg and arm having dragged him down to the bottom. He had been without air for so long._

 _So long…_

 _Then, at last, the young boy suddenly choked and gasped for air, coughing up the water that had settled itself in his lungs._

 _A sigh escaped her, relief pooling in her gut as he rolled onto his side and continued to gag. Seizing the opportunity, she leaned over him and began to strike his back. A word, a name, left her lips to address him. To comfort him._

 _But it was long removed from the already opaque, jumbled memory that was quickly evaporating, leaving behind a twisting feeling in her gut. A sickness almost._

 _It was foreign._ It hurt _._

 _Visceral, shooting pain._

 _And then… a clearer image of the young boy. Tangled golden hair clinging to his reddened cheeks and wet forehead. Quick, sharp breaths entering and exiting his chest as he finally began to breathe for himself again._

 _And golden eyes that had briefly lost their light were then aglow._

 _Alive. He was… Alive…_

 _He was alive and_ breathing _!_

 _He could—_

* * *

 _Breathe!_

The fragments of images had distracted her, and the moment he slipped out from beneath the cuff chains she knew that she had mis-stepped.

Given in to whatever _that_ was…

 _Don'tgiveinDon'tthinkDon'tfeelThosearenothing_ _ **Youarenothing**_ —

With hands empty and her target gone, she was without purpose. She raised her empty hands to her head and pushed her fingers through her hair, digging her nails into her scalp.

 _Nothing_.

A firm kick to the back of her legs forced her from her thoughts and down to her knees. Within moments the soldiers that had been escorting her had descended upon her like a pack of ravenous wolves, ripping and tearing at her as she tried to writhe away from them.

She lurched forward and slammed her body into the soldier nearest her, sending them both crashing to the floor. As he attempted to untangle himself from her, she lunged and grabbed hold of the weapon holstered on his hip, pressing down on the weapon's safety to engage it. The soldier cried out for help and sprang forward, grabbing the chain that linked her cuffs together in an effort to wrestle it away from her. She held firmly onto the grip, finger sliding back from the trigger guard as she pointed the barrel toward him.

 _You are a weapon…_

He grabbed her wrists and pulled them away, pointing the weapon away from him and offsetting the weapon's trajectory.

 _You do not think._

He began to push back as the hands that had been grasping before began to descend on her again.

 _You do not feel._

The soldier raised his hands – and the weapon – in defense.

 _You have one purpose and one purpose only._ It was all she knew – all she _could do_. Because she was a weapon—

The desperation, the fear upon realizing that her purpose was once again taken away, overcame her and she lunged forward. The soldier, taken by surprise, jerked back - and the weapon discharged.


End file.
